


Turned Towards and Away (The Branching Streams and Currents Remix)

by Sour_Idealist



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Gen, Mild Sexual Content, Minor Violence, Multi, Prophecy, Religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-15
Updated: 2012-04-15
Packaged: 2017-11-03 16:41:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/383635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sour_Idealist/pseuds/Sour_Idealist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leaning over the edge of the <em>Dawn Treader</em>, Lucy finds there are visions in the water.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turned Towards and Away (The Branching Streams and Currents Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Snacky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snacky/gifts).
  * Inspired by [so the landscape before you looks just like the edge of the world](https://archiveofourown.org/works/115880) by [Snacky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snacky/pseuds/Snacky). 



Lucy hangs over the rail of the _Dawn Treader_ and watches visions stream past in the sweet sun-swollen water; Lucy smiles and turns away, turns her face to the world's gleaming edge before her. The water stays.

The waves ripple, and a gust of wind clears thick pea-soup London fog from the steel-sharp shape of Lucy’s face, cruel and cold and lovely enough not simply to launch ships but to command the tides. Age has only made her more beautiful, the scars along her cheek have only made her beauty deeper, even death has only made her beauty painful to look upon.

The same wind that cleared the fog now stirs her hair around the iron spike that holds her up, and her dim dead eyes watch the traffic pass in the wreck of Trafalgar Square.

The water ripples.

The sun beats down on a battlefield beneath the familiar roll of Lucy's mountains, and a dryad kneels over a queen who has a handful of gold strands in the iron-gray braids of her hair. Three – just three – bright drops of crimson cordial shine in the bottle the dryad holds to her lips, and the queen shakes her head, lifts a bruised and swollen hand to hold the dryad’s wrist. Her lips move, thin and fragile, and she points beside her, points to a dying Tarkeenah who watches the two of them with the eyes of a frightened child. The dryad nods.

The water ripples.

Eustace sits in a bustling coutroom, his old ordinary sneer settled in the lines at the edge of his mouth, along his cheeks, around his eyes. He brushes some dust that the water doesn’t show from the sleeve of his thick wool coat, while a gold watch as heavy as a crown shines in the musty light; he says something disinterested, disdainful, _confident_ to a man who clutches a folder and pinches his lips fretfully. Behind the two of them a wool-wigged judge sighs and shakes his head.

The water ripples.

Eustace, laugh-lines crinkling around his eyes like the creases on his worn-out coat, perches on the edge of a great oak desk with scratches on the edge and great stacks of books bound in leather and paper threatening to spill over across the floor. Eustace smiles, warm dim-filtered sunlight picking out pepper in his thick brown hair, runs his hand over the nearest cover like he's stroking an old fat tomcat; he turns to a class of people Susan's age with pencils stubs behind their ears and a nervous shuffle to their feet, and he starts to speak, still smiling.

The water ripples.

Caspian sits in a great stone hall, chubby-faced with being young and curled up like a plump cheerful grub at the base of a statue of a long-haired king. A dwarf in thick brown robes sits cross-legged beside him, speaks fast enough that his beard is twitching as he gestures: to the statue at whose feet Caspian sits, then to the three more statues at either side, then the great carved Lion, then the writing on the wall.  _Lord Aslan and his four Servants,_ and then written above each statue in its turn: _The Dead’s Gentle Guide. The Magnificent Protector. The Merciful Judge._ _The Valiant Peacebringer._

The water ripples.

Lucy turns away before she sees these things, because no one is ever told what would have happened _._ But the waves still know, and the waves still ripple.

Peter lies at the edge of a shining river, and Caspian leans tenderly against his shoulder, and Caspian’s fingers are caught in the thin strong hand of a woman whose starry-bright hair spreads out on the riverbank around them. Peter leans down and gently kisses a bruise on Caspian’s forehead that melts away with the touch of his lips, and the three of them all laugh together at how afraid they used to be lifetimes before.

The water ripples.

Susan stands at the edge of a pool and sets her hands together for a proper swimmer’s dive, her lips deep red, a ring on her finger shining as green as the place behind her; Susan dives and the water catches a shadow, clears and Susan sits in a torchlit alley as a golden snake pours over her thick wool skirts. Those few who could read lips could see her whisper a wary greeting; those fewer who could read the mouth of a snake could see him answer: _Peace to you, my wandering daughter. I had hoped you’d come._

 _I’m Aslan’s daughter,_ Susan starts to answer, stops and looks again, her hand palm out to the Serpent who sets his head against her fingers. _I hadn’t thought you’d be a snake in any world._

 _I am all things to all people,_ the Serpent says with a laugh in his slitted eyes, twining around her hand, _and snakes are my creatures too, and there are worlds that walk in deadly fear of lions. Come, my child. We have work to do._

The water ripples.

Edmund sits at the edge of a metal bed in rumpled clothes, his cheeks flushed and his hands trembling as he wraps a quilt around the naked shoulders of a girl who’s trying not to cry; clumsily he strokes her hair, whispers something to her that makes her stare and start to sob the great shuddering kind of sob that’s almost a relief to let rip out of you. Edmund turns a deeper red and pulls her close, keeps stroking her hair as he stares panicked towards the distant wall, until finally she picks herself up with a sniffle and he draws a sleeve across her cheeks and whispers – this time something that makes her cover her mouth and laugh around her tears. He smiles, fastens the single undone button of his trousers.

The water ripples.

Lucy turns away before she sees these things, because some stories are not ours to know. But the waves are different, and the waves still ripple.

Eustace crouches in at night in a gray school lavatory, scraps of paper getting damp on the edge of the sink, pen dribbling ink along his hand, a stack of crumpled letters scattered across the floor. He’s got another balanced on his knee, addressed _Dear Lucy,_ and he’s just in the process of striking out a messy sentence that looks like _I need your ~~counsel~~ ~~advice~~ ~~counsel~~ help._

The water ripples.

Susan sits in an empty church and spits, screams, snarls, sobs, a handkerchief twisted and mangled in her hands, mascara smudged around her eyes, her skin blotched scarlet with rage, with loss. The light in the windows catches and forms faces; the grain of the pew she sits on shapes itself into a lion and settles at her hand, watching with eyes like pine-knots and worry and waiting.

The water ripples.

Lucy sits in a clear bright place, a crown light as air in her hair that isn’t golden, that doesn’t swirl sinuously in the wind. Her eyes are bright, and she is neither old nor young, and she is not anything close to lovely, but nor would anybody want to look away from her. She tilts her head to the side and watches the clouds that drift below her, and a Lion, a Snake, a dark-skinned Boy leans his head against her shoulder and listens to her thinking.

 _It seems a dreadfully hard thing_ , she says, clear in the pattern of her lips, _to leave them all behind, where we can’t help them._ And the Lion, the Snake, the Boy smiles at her, stands and takes her hand and lifts her up.

 _So be it,_ he says, and the name he calls her is one no lip-reader could follow, though some might see him say _my daughter_ and some might see him say _disciple_ and some might see him say _beloved._ He smiles, and so does she. _Let us find a world for you, St. Lucy._

Lucy turns away before she sees these things on the water, because they are shining indistinct and bright on the horizon ahead of her; she'll find them when the time is right, and let the water ripple.


End file.
